


The Things He Can't Unsee

by panickedbee



Series: Sherlock Holmes Is A Very Lucky Man [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, Love, M/M, Morning Sex, Resolved Sexual Tension, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-08-13 00:17:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7954636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/panickedbee/pseuds/panickedbee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has never seen anything more beautiful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Things He Can't Unsee

**Author's Note:**

> This used to be a ficlet originally posted on Tumblr. Now it's on here. Funny, innit?

He has never seen anything more beautiful.

John keeps on thinking this for several hours over the day for a whole week now. He would be in the kitchen, just waiting for the water to boil and then almost let the mug fall out of his hands as the image flashes by, and all the feelings that come with it. He would ponder in front of one of the shelves at Tesco and search for his favourite brand of jam, and it would struck him. He would be on his laptop, deleting some nasty but badly articulated comment about his sexuality, and _his_ name would appear on his blog somewhere, everywhere (because, to be fair, he mentions him all the time) and all he can do then, is to look out of the window like the love-struck fool that Sherlock Holmes has reduced him to, and the sexually very satisfied boyfriend that he is now, for six days and about ten hours already, and to play out the scene of their first shared morning together in his head over and over again …

He knows that he has never seen anything more beautiful as soon as he blinks his eyes open and is almost taken aback by how the morning light hits chocolate brown curls, highlights the contrast between the dark nape curl and the light, milky skin of the long neck in front of him. He knows that he has never felt more secure, more _at home_ in his life, than when he watches the slow and steady rise and fall of Sherlock’s body, listens to him breathing and knows he is alive.

He’s not only alive, he is relaxed, he is calm, he is healthily resting, and gloriously naked underneath the blanket they share. It’s different, of course, to wake up in the not very well known environment that is Sherlock’s bedroom, with the light illuminating the room in ways foreign to John’s routine. But he can’t help but feel that he has not once felt more like he was never meant to be anywhere else.

John snuggles closer and lets out a content sigh. The warmth and proximity of Sherlock makes his heart grow and beat faster in his chest. He lets his hand wander, because goddamn, this man is irresistible and he still can’t believe he is allowed to do this for the rest of his life, so he lets it wander slowly along the long back, the fading scars, curling his fingers around one sharp hipbone.

He hears Sherlock letting out a deep sigh of his own. John’s hand doesn’t stop there, and soon he is digging his fingers into the plum and muscular flesh of his arse. Sherlock gasps in his still sleepy state, and he is so warm and so limp. John presses his naked chest to Sherlock’s back as he uses both his hands now. He can feel his own hot arousal pooling in his groin, and the desire to rub his cock all over his beautiful genius detective gets ever harder to resist, the longer he is massaging those two arse cheeks beneath his hands.

He pulls them apart ever so slightly, exposing the hole in between, and Sherlock throws his head back (almost straight against John’s forehead) to let out a loud growl.

“ _Johhhhn_ ,” he whimpers, already defeated and ready to give him anything.

The sound of his own name on his lips, aroused, mindless, boneless in his arms, will forever be the most erotic thing he is every going to hear, and should he have to sleep without Sherlock for a night and be desperate, this will be all he needs to bring himself over the edge. Not now, though, he wants to take care of him first.

Sherlock arches his back when John’s finger brushes over his hole, and he moans, his voice high and raw. The only thing John can do, has to, needs to do, is to press a kiss to his neck. He grabs Sherlock’s hip and presses his aching cock to his bum while he kisses his neck. Rubbing hot flesh against his entrance, kissing his neck. Sherlock is a shaking mess already, and he can hear him sob and moan, but he can’t stop kissing him.

He thinks about how long they’ve waited, all this time, and about all the obstacles, the impossibilities of them ever happening, and ever happening in this way. But they are here. Healing each other. John kisses his neck because he loves him, because he is the only thing he thinks about, dreams about, and he tries to express everything that words never could by pressing his lips to soft skin.

“I love you.” A kiss. “I love you, Sherlock. I love you.”

“John, _p-please_!”

When he wraps his hand around Sherlock’s leaking cock, Sherlock’s muffled groan is one of relief and, at the same time, evidence of how close he is already. He doesn’t want to tease him (they did do that yesterday night already, after all), so his fist tightens around his flesh, strokes fast and rough, while the noises Sherlock makes almost sound as if he was in pain. _So close_.

“John. John, oh god, I need to-”

“Yes, Sherlock, come. Come for me, you’re so close. You’re so hot.”

And Sherlock whimpers again in desperation, but then John’s thumb is stroking the head of his cock, gripping it tighter between thumb and the side of his finger, and Sherlock makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat.

He strokes him from head to shaft, two times, three times, and then he is coming, hot release spilling over John’s hand and the sheets while Sherlock’s body spasms with one long, loud moan that the thin walls of their flat couldn’t have been able to hold in. (Sorry, Mrs H.)

And maybe John was wrong. Maybe the way Sherlock Holmes looks right now, right in this moment, all blissed out, boneless and smiling, the pure happiness rolling off him like waves, illuminated in early sunlight, hair ruffled and crinkles around his eyes that have fallen shut - maybe that could be, by far, the most beautiful thing that he has ever seen. And he will never be able to unsee it.


End file.
